Wingman

"Vite! Vite! Allez! Allez!" she said, shooing the waiter away. Surprisingly, he complied.

Then she turned and yelled across the table over Lori's shoulder, "YO! Knit-cap guy!"

An unshaven dude at a nearby table who was one of those pretending not to listen, and who was wearing a knit cap even though it was summer, reluctantly turned around.

"Yeah, you, you hipster dingus! Take your damned tweet-streaming somewhere else, asshole!"

He looked like he was going to say something, but my wingman, when peeved, was a force of nature. At that moment, she looked like she was about to leap over the table and beat him with his own coffee mug, so he picked up his tablet and left. Most of the other eavesdroppers took that opportunity to exit then, too, leaving us in sole possession of the patio.

Lori just watched her in shock. I was enjoying the performance. The waiter appeared with a vodka, and passed it to my wingman, who lifted it to drink half.

"Bastard was live-tweeting your whole story. He looks just like his profile photo. Read the whole thing he posted as I walked over here so I'm all caught up with everything you and she said up to when she claimed she never fooled around with D'Sean while you were still together."

She put her vodka down and held me at an arm's length away with both arms, gazing into my eyes with a huge smile as Lori looked like she would choke on her tongue in the background.

"Good to see you again, Esteban."

**********

We had run into each other in London, my wingman and me. More accurately, she kind of shoved me out of the way.

One nice thing about the Chelsea Hilton was that it had a lounge right off the lobby. I was relaxing there, watching through the window as a freak monsoon-type rainstorm drenched London. Feeling thankful that I was inside and dry, I decided that the new, post-Lori me was going to try some wine in the evening instead of going for beer, and I was drinking something the bartender recommended. The second something, actually. He was pouring generously so, in American terms, I was probably three-plus glasses into being drunk when I saw her.

The other nice thing about the hotel, besides the bar, was that all the reception clerks were extremely pretty Eastern European girls. Not like model gorgeous or anything, but the sturdy, reliable kind of extremely pretty that reduces guys to wanting to live better lives to be worthy of them. The dangerous kind of pretty, in other words.

There I was, ready to pledge my new better-life moral rectitude to Joanna, the very pretty blonde Polish girl with green eyes manning the desk that evening. I had come up with some line of clueless questions about sites to see that would keep her busy talking to me and maybe brushing my hand as she drew directions on the little city map that they had at the desk. I was just about at the desk and ready to open my mouth when I got pushed away by a drowned rat.

My reaction time was a little slower then because of the wine so it took me a moment to realize that the drowned rat was actually a young woman, soaked to the skin, and quite unhappy. She was also quite American by manner and volume.

She was launching into telling Joanna some long, complicated tale of woe, when Joanna held up a hand to stop her. The rat stopped reluctantly.

"Excuse me, Miss," Joanna said, "but this gentleman was in front of you, I believe."

The rat looked at me. I remember thinking that she could not possibly be more wet, unless she was actually underwater. Her dark hair hung limp around her exhausted face. There was a long puddle running from where she stood with her drenched suitcase back to the door. I slowly looked at the long puddle and then at the rat and then at Joanna, who was beginning to smile at my reaction. She must have sensed that I was loopy.

"Joanna," I finally said, "I think she needs to talk to you more than I do. I'll wait."

Joanna's smile grew and her face became that of a goddess. I no longer wanted to live a better life to be worthy of her. Instead, I wanted to live the best life that I possibly could to be worthy of her, even if that meant going to medical school and then spending twenty years de-worming Somali orphans before she and I got together.

It was not a smile but rather the faintest sign of a bit of relief that played across the rat's face in response. She then turned to Joanna and explained a sad story of having been booked into another Hilton across town because of her father's Hilton membership points, but there was a problem with her reservation, and her flight was delayed, and she had some kind of problem with her ATM card so she did not have much cash, so she had been on the Tube, which was having a mechanical problem of some sort, so service was delayed, and then the rain came, and she was down here now in Chelsea because the Hilton worldwide service person said there might be a room there but could not reserve it because of system problems, so she should check in person. So, she was. And this was her last hope.

Joanna listened to this all in a friendly way, said she was sorry to hear about these problems, and would see what she could do. She turned to her computer and started tapping away, her brow knitting up more tightly as she went. Finally, she stopped, took a deep breath, and gave the rat the bad news: that I had taken the last available room. Him. That guy over there, as she pointed to me. They were completely booked. The rat looked at me with something approaching hate except that she was too exhausted.

Shit. This was going to be an extra ten years of deworming Somali orphans before I was worthy of Joanna unless I did something dramatic.

"Maybe I can help," I said.

Both women looked at me. Joanna looked mildly amused and curious. The rat looked wary.

"The young lady can share my room until she finds something," I said.

Joanna looked shocked. The rat looked like she was summoning her last reserves of energy to fling herself on me and choke me to death because I had basically suggested that she would trade her virtue for lodging.

It was then that I pulled out my trump card. I held out my right hand, made a fist, and extended my pinky.

"I admit that there is only one bed in the room, but I'm making you a pinky promise that I will be a perfect gentleman as long as you are my guest."

The rat's look changed from anger to being stunned. Joanna, however, was a picture. Her fact lit up like a Christmas tree as a huge smile spread on her face and her eyes opened in surprise. She was a goddess again. That smile was amazing, but it was obviously taking her a huge effort not to laugh out loud. I was hoping the rat would tell me to go to Hell so I would not, in fact, have to share my room, but I could instead spend time talking to Joanna about my nobility, which would lessen the Somali de-worming obligation time.

Then, the flaw in my plan revealed itself. The rat was desperate enough to consider the offer seriously.

She turned to Joanna.

"What do you think?" she asked, woman to woman.

Joanna looked at us both, very amused.

"He's been well-behaved today so far. We have his personal information in the computer, if something happens. And it is a pinky promise...."

She left that thought in the air. The rat hesitated.

Then, she said, "Deal," extending her right hand and locking pinkies with me.

"Mess with me though, and I'll fuck you up," she added.

I nodded that I understood.

Joanna insisted on taking the rat's personal details down and adding her to the reservation for my protection. I had not thought of that, but it made sense. The passport was one of the only things that rat was carrying that was still dry. That was because it was encased in several plastic baggies.

I asked Joanna to have housekeeping provide additional hangers because I was sure that the drowned rat would want to hang things up. Joanna nodded with the smile still there as we went to the elevators.

"Steve," I said, extending my hand.

"Margaret," she replied, shaking it.

"Call me Maggie, though, and I'll kill you."

I looked at her.

"Maggie, Maggie, Maggie-bo-Baggy!" I said, closing my eyes in anticipation of getting hit, and sticking my lips and chin out.

When no hit came, I opened my eyes.

Despite herself, she was smiling.

"Just checking," I said.

"I'm too tired now. I'll kill you later."

As the elevator dinged its way up to our floor, I said, "You know, you're dealing with a lot of anger issues. So far, you've threatened me at least three times."

She looked at me and said, "You've got no idea."

I let her into the room. I thought of asking her if she wanted to get completely naked before we had sex on the bed, or whether she preferred just to pull her pants down and bend over the desk, but decided to give her space instead.

She found one set of clothes that was mostly dry, buried deep within her suitcase and, armed with the extra hangers, began to set things out to dry. I told her I would be down in the lounge and to come down for something to eat when she was showered and warmed up.

I returned to the lobby to find Joanna talking quietly with Alexandra, an equally pretty blonde Hungarian clerk, at reception. They stopped when they saw me and smiled. Both of them held up their right hands, extended their pinkies, wiggled them, and then dissolved into fits of giggles.

The bartender had kept my tab open and asked me if I wanted another glass of Merlot. I did.

Thirty minutes later Maggie came down, re-energized by the shower, wearing sweatpants and a sweatshirt, and looking very easy on the eyes. She was not looking live-your-best-life pretty, but was certainly live-a-better-than-average-life pretty. She had dried her wavy dark hair, and it made all the difference. Her shoes and socks must have been soaked because she wore flip-flops, allowing me to see that her delicate feet had blue painted toenails that matched her fingernails. Her face was what killed me. Her alert face and broad smile signaled mischief. I looked into her hazel eyes and was immediately wondering how I could break a pinky promise with honor. I looked over at Joanna and Alexandra, who were watching while pretending not to, and worried that they could read my sick, twisted, male mind, so I tried to calm down.

The bartender came over. Margaret surprised me by asking for a double-shot of vodka and then a glass of whatever I was drinking because she had to catch up. The bartender chuckled and went to get her drinks.

"Maggie, you're going to get messed up," I told her.

She locked eyes with me.

"I told you. Don't call me Maggie. I hate that nickname. It's what my asshole boyfriend used to call me before we broke up right before I left."

"Sorry," I said. "What does everyone else call you?"

"Everyone else, including my parents, calls me Margie. But I don't like that anymore either. I'm here in Europe this summer to get an early start on a year abroad next semester, and I am going to reinvent myself. Margie was the girl who let some cheating dickhole call her Maggie and tell her that he loved her and wanted to marry her and then fuck her roommate before they both told her it was only sex. Margie is the girl whose parents said that she should forgive the dickhole because boys will be boys, and we've been together since high school so we can't break up. That Margie girl, alias Maggie, is dead. My new life begins tonight."

The bartender came back with her drinks. She pounded down the vodka before he even had the wine glass on the table. The bartender looked at me with the smallest raise of his eyebrow and walked away.

"What about Peggy" I asked.

She already had the wine to her lips before I finished the question.

"No one has ever called me Peggy," she said.

"It's a form of Margaret," I said.

"I know. But no one's ever used it. My middle name is Susan, so you can see why."

We both laughed.

"OK," I said. "I get it. Peggy's okay. Not Peggy Sue."

"Let's give it a try," she said as we clinked wine glasses.

"What's your story, Steve?"

"Fuck Steve. He's married to a cheating bitch and has just filed for the divorce so that he can start his life over."

"Misery loves company, huh?" she asked.

"Guess so."

"What about Stefan?"

"No. Too close to Steve."

"Étienne?"

"Never."

"What's your last name?"

"Miller."

Peggy started to smile.

"How about Esteban Molinero? It's the Spanish form of your name. You can be a Latin lover."

I chuckled.

"Okay, Señorita Peggy. I am the famous boolfighter, Esteban Molinero from Toledo, but not the one in Ohio. You shall be my flamenco-dancing seester."

We laughed, clinked glasses again, and ordered sandwiches. We ate, drank more wine, and told each other our stories, although I kept my story vague. After a bit, we decided to retire for the evening. As we passed the front desk, Joanna and Alexandra looked at me severely when Peggy could not see and wiggled their pinkies at me. They had apparently developed reason to think that I might not honor my promise, perhaps because I had let my gaze wander down to Peggy's butt as she walked ahead of me to the elevators. It was worthy of attention in a fuck-I'm-a-sculptor-and-I-have-to-carve-that-ass-into-stone-to-preserve-it-for-the-ages kind of way. I made a circle with my index finger and thumb on my left hand and pumped my right pinky in and out of it as I wiggled my eyebrows at Joanna and Alexandra. I had drunk enough that I was willing to do that. Let's be real. Joanna and I would never work. Ditto with Alexandra. I was never going to make it through medical school so I could deworm orphans. Alexandra, however, despite my lack of class, silently laughed as we passed while Joanna stood arms-akimbo and fixed me with a deathly gaze. I just smiled and waved over my shoulder.

When we got to the room, Peggy washed her face, brushed her teeth, looked at me with what seemed to be bedroom eyes, climbed into the king-sized bed in the sweats she was wearing, and promptly fell into a deep sleep. I noticed that she was on the same side of the bed that Lori used to sleep on. Myself, I drank a couple of glasses of water to head off a hangover, got into sleep shorts and a T-shirt, and also climbed into bed. I had seen enough of the shape of Peggy's body even in the baggy sweats to have a serious hardon, so it took me a bit to fall asleep. Peggy's alcohol-induced snoring calmed me, and eventually I went under.

I woke up first to find Peggy snuggled up to me, half lying on my left side, with her arm across my chest. Lori used to do that. I supposed that Peggy used to sleep like that with the boyfriend. My left arm was wrapped around her, and my hand was on the small of her back. With Lori, I would have run my hand down to her ass and started to slowly stroke up and down her butt crack. That always woke her up with her motor running. It took everything I had not to try the same thing with Peggy.

A few moments later, she began to wake up, looking groggy, tried to orient herself, suddenly realized where she was and who she was with, and promptly panicked, pulling away quickly.

"Sorry," we both said and then laughed.

"It's okay," we both said and then laughed again.

We moved away from each other, as far as the bed would allow, and dozed a bit. The biggest surprise I think we both had when we finally woke up all the way and had time to process things was that we were not as hungover as we thought we were going to be.

Peggy discovered that much of her clothing had dried overnight. She got into the shower first as I looked out the window and saw that the previous night's rain had cleared and the sky was clear blue. When she came out, I told her to see if either of the girls from last night was at the front desk. When she asked why, I told her that they would probably want to know if I kept my pinky promise. She laughed and went out. One shower later, I followed.

Alexandra was at the desk, but Joanna was off. Those girls must be on double-shifts. Alexandra and Peggy were leaning close together talking quietly when I came into view. When they saw me, they both immediately got quiet. I said good morning and headed to the Grill Restaurant for breakfast. Peggy soon joined me. I never asked what she was talking to Alexandra about.

At breakfast, Peggy announced that, because I had been a gentleman the night before, I could accompany her as she toured the city, if I wanted to. I'm no dummy. I accepted the invitation immediately.

It was a wonderful day. We took a long walk along the river up to Parliament, turned west and arrived at the Victoria Memorial in front of Buckingham Palace just in time to see the changing of the guard. We grabbed a light lunch, strolled through Hyde Park and wound up in Notting Hill, where she insisted that we have afternoon tea. It was funny, I thought. I had been through some of these same places the day before, but it was much more fun today with a pretty girl who had a ready smile and was easy to talk to.

We were in a bohemian kind of place with sofas instead of chairs. We were sitting side by side, still drinking tea to fight the effects of lingering jet lag and because it was London. I was thinking that I could not possibly drink more tea without exploding, when a frown came over Peggy's face. She was looking at her phone. I let her go for a moment of two, getting more frustrated, before I spoke.

"What's wrong? Wifi out?"

"No," she said without looking up. "I'm looking for updates on this story I was following before I left the States, but nothing seems to be happening. It's very annoying. It was all over the news a couple of weeks ago, but now there's nothing."

"What story is that?"

"This local television weathergirl was screwing around on her husband with some ex-football player sportscaster from her news show, but the husband found out, burned her on Twitter and Facebook, and both the wife and the sports guy got taken off the air. I haven't seen an update in weeks. And I'm addicted. I'm going to get the shakes soon, if I can't get an update."

I felt my skin getting clammy as she had spoken. The previous evening, I had told her I caught my wife cheating and we were getting a divorce, but not much else. I had let Peggy do most of the talking about the boyfriend who cheated on her.

I decided to be cagey.

"What's your interest?"

"Flip side of my story, in general terms," she said to me as she looked up from her phone.

"You should know how miserable it feels to be cheated on yourself. I would love to give that guy a hug and tell him everything will be alright. Besides, he's probably a hottie. From the pictures I've seen, the weathergirl wife is superhot. Her husband's probably tall and ripped. I'd like to comfort him," she said with a sly smile and a glance.

I could not help it. I started to laugh. I have a pretty healthy ego, or I did until the bitch cheated on me, but I am not ripped. I do not think of myself as a hottie. I do not have six-pack abs. I am just a regular guy who keeps in good shape. And whom half the Internet thinks is a loser because his smoking hot wife cuckolded him.

Peggy was confused.

"What's funny?"

"Have you seen pictures of the guy the weathergirl is married to?"

"No. He's kept a low profile. None of the stories have pictures of him. His Twitter profile is the wife making out with the sports guy. Everything else he had on social media is private, except the posts about her cheating. His social media accounts don't even have his full name. His friends aren't talking to anyone either."

"What's the weathergirl's name?"

"Lori Miller."

She frowned as the realization hit her.

"Are you going to tell me she's a relative, Esteban?"

"Not exactly."

I pulled out my phone. I had deleted all of the pictures I had of Lori, but it was possible to recover them from the recently deleted folder. I searched and found one of us on a weekend trip to the Bahamas to celebrate her getting the news job. We were standing together, wearing bathing suits at the beach, Lori looking up into my eyes with adoration, as I looked at the camera for the picture. One of the waiters from the resort was kind enough to take the picture, but he was horrible at setting them up or waiting until we were both looking the same way. I handed my phone to Peggy.